“Yes.”
“He’s dead. One of the Turkeytrack boys told me. I met him yonder, huntin’ strays. He was shot by Pat Garrett at Pete Maxwell’s place.”
So he had gone there, after all. And now he was dead. He had known Billy only a short time, but it had been one of the first times he had been around boys of his own age. He and…what was his name? Dodie…Dodie Grant. They had ridden out with Billy.
Hickok was gone, too, shot in the back up in Deadwood a few years ago.
He and Cody rode on in silence. Suddenly he felt lost and lonely…old ties were being cut, and so much of the country seemed to be changing. He said as much to Cody.
“You ain’t heard the most of it. This cowhand was tellin’ me they’ve passed a prohibition law up in Kansas. You can’t buy a drink nowhere in the state.”
“I had heard they were talking of it.”
Val stared at the horizon, thinking. He had to belong somewhere, he had to put down some roots. He could not forever be moving. He wanted a home.
After all, why should he feel any urge to kill Sonnenberg? Hardesty and Pike were dead, and they had paid their debt for Will. Avery Simpson was somewhere in the East, and Prince Pavel was far away in Europe. Let the course of natural events take care of Sonnenberg.
This was where he belonged, somewhere here in the West. He would marry Boston, if she would have him, and hang out his shingle in some lively western town, in Texas, New Mexico, or Colorado.
Boston came wheeling up then, flashing him a quick smile, her black hair blowing in the wind.
“Do you know what I am going to do, Val? I am going to Denver with you!”
“What?”
“I mean it! We made it up between us this afternoon! Dube, Tensleep, and me. We’re all going with you!”
“What is this going to be—a gypsy caravan?”
“I need some clothes, some girl clothes. Dube has never seen a big town and he wants to go, and Tensleep figures he should go along and look after all of us. So there! It’s settled!”
*
THE LAND LAY wide before them, under a wider sky—long, slow swells of the grass sea, a grass now tawny with the dryness of a parching summer, streams now scarcely a trickle lost in the width of sandy bed.
A few tracks of buffalo, here and there the trail left by a drifting band of mustangs, and always, lost against the brassy sky, the slow swinging loops of the buzzards. Men may plan, they may dream and struggle, but the buzzard has only to wait, for all things come to him in the end.
They rode due north toward the railroad, coming once upon a covered wagon, standing desolate in a small hollow, its cover blown to shreds, one of the bows broken, and several stacks of buffalo hides standing nearby. The wagon had been looted and left, but there were two grave mounds close by, no marker on either.
“Happened to a man I knew,” Tensleep said. “He come upon a trailside grave and rode over to read the marker. It was his brother buried there, alongside the Chisholm Trail, a brother he hadn’t seen in ten years because they left home separate. You ever stop to think the number of men who come west and nobody ever hears of again?”
They camped that night near a seep where a tiny trickle of water made a pool the size of your hat and a small area of damp grass where the horses ate and breathed up what little water they could get.
The next creek bed was dry, with cracked mud for a bottom, and digging brought nothing but dust.
They heard the long whistle of the train before they could see the station, four lone buildings huddled together on a flat valley with no trees. Four buildings and a water tank—the station with a few feet of platform, a saloon with a postoffice sign on it, and a general store next to it where the bartender sold supplies between drinks. There was also a stable and some stock corrals.
Several men with drinks in their hands came to the door of the saloon to stare at them as they rode in, and when they reached the stable two of the men in the saloon followed. One was only a boy of seventeen, the other a few years older.
They took sidelong glance at Boston, and approached Val. “Mister,” the oldest one said, “meanin’ no offense, but is that a woman yonder?”
“Yes, it is. It’s his sister.” He indicated Dube.
“You reckon I could speak at her? An’ maybe look a little closer? Mister, Willie an’ me, we ain’t seen a woman in night onto a year. Nine, ten months, I’d put it.”
Val turned. “Boston, these young men haven’t looked at a girl in some time. They would like to talk to you.”
“Sure!” She walked over. “How are you, boys?”
They stood grinning, the red creeping around their ears.
“Are you ranching out here?” she asked.
The older one nodded. “We went to work for a gent up at Newton, Kansas, and drove some cows down here for him. We been here quite a spell, and a man sure gets hongry to even look at womenfolks.”
The hostler came to take their horses. “I’ll buy ’em if you’re sellin’,” he said, “or keep ’em for you if you’re comin’ back.”
“We’re comin’ back,” Dube replied, “an’ we want these same horses waitin’ when we come. I’m Dube Bucklin,” he said, “an’ you may have heard of our outfit.”
“I surely have. That reminds me. Got a letter over to the post office for a gent named Darrant—one of your outfit, I reckon.”
Val turned. “I am Val Darrant.”
“Pleased.…This letter, it was misdirected here. Guess those folks back in Boston don’t know much about west Texas.”
“Are you the postmaster?”
“You could say that. Rightly I am only half of him. Smith Johnson is postmaster and I’m Johnson. Smith is over to the saloon. You see, we couldn’t decide which was to be postmaster, so we decided we both would, and we made application for the job as Smith Johnson. You walk over yonder and Smith will give you that letter. Been settin’ here nigh onto two weeks.”
The saloon-post office was a bare room with a short bar and four or five bottles on the back bar. Smith was a fat, unshaven man in his undershirt, who leaned massive forearms on the bar. A cowhand lounged at the end of the bar, nursing a beer. At a table in the corner two men sat drinking beer.
“Quite a town you’ve got here,” Val said.
“Yep! She’s a lollapalooza! Biggest town between here and the next place. Was that really a flesh-and-blood woman you had with you?”
“Yes. That was Miss Bucklin, from down south a ways. Her brother is with her, and we’re catching the train for Denver.”
“Won’t be much trouble, catchin’ it. We got a signal here that we hang out and she stops ever’ time. You just order yourself a beer, and—”
“I’ll have the beer, and the letter for Val Darrant. The other half of the postmaster said you had one for me. Incidentally, which are you? Post or Master?”
Smith chuckled. “First time anybody asked me that. Now if I said I was Master I’d have to lick Johnson, and he’s a tough old coot, but I wouldn’t want to say I was Post, not with all those stray dogs runnin’ loose hereabouts.”
He drew a beer from the barrel, then took down a letter from a high shelf. “And there’s your letter. As for the train, that old busted-down bronc-stomper yonder at the table is what passes for a stationmaster. He’ll sell you a ticket. If you ain’t got the money he’ll trust you for it if you’ll buy him a beer.”
“Seems like a man can get almost anything around here if he can buy a beer,” Val said, smiling.
“Mister, you already have,” Smith said. “In this here town when you’ve put up your horse, bought yourself a ticket and a beer, you’ve just had about all there is to offer!”
“We pitch horseshoes,” the stationmaster said, “and toward evenin’ we shoot at jack rabbits or coyotes. Ever’ oncet in a while, somebody hits one.”
Val drank his beer and waited for the others to come over. The board at one end of the saloon showed a timetable, and the train was due about
sundown.
On all sides the brown and slightly rolling plains stretched away to the sky. Nothing changed here but the seasons, and occasionally the cloud formations. Not long ago this had been Comanche country, and some miles away to the south was the site of Adobe Walls, scene of several great Indian fights.
Smith went to the door when Boston crossed the street toward the saloon, accompanied by Tensleep and Dube. “Ma’am,” he said, “would you like to come into the post office an’ set? It ain’t often we have a lady in town.”
“Thank you.” Boston entered, and went to a table with Val and Dube. Tensleep strolled to the bar.
Smith gave him a sharp glance. “Tensleep, what are you up to? These here folks shape up to mighty nice people.”
“I ride for Darrant and Bucklin,” Tensleep said. “I’m a reeformed man, Smith.”
At the table, Val opened his letter. It was from Van’s sister.
Dear Mr. Darrant:
As you may know, my brother was killed in a fall from a horse. He had left word that if anything happened to him, this box was to be forwarded to you, unopened. Being unsure of your exact address, we have forwarded the box to Mr. Peck, at his home in Empire, Colorado.
Van said Mr. Peck had handled some business matters for you, and would deposit the box at the bank, to await your pleasure.
A few words followed to say that Van had often talked of him, and asking him to call on them if he came to Boston. He read the note twice; then, after reading it to Boston and Dube, put it down on the table.
When it came right down to it, he knew very little about his mother, and what he knew he did not like, but Van Clevern had been with her throughout her bad days, and if anyone knew the whole story it would be Van.
Now Van was dead, and unless Val was much mistaken, his death had been anything but accidental. Did Myra know about this box? He did not see how she could know, but little escaped her attention if it concerned her. The thought made him uneasy. Too many had suffered because of her, and if she had the idea that Mr. Peck or anyone else had a box that contained incriminating evidence, whoever had the box was in danger.
Suddenly he remembered the account of Henry Sonnenberg recruiting a safe-cracker…and hadn’t Will told him that Henry himself had been a yeggman?
Could there be a connection? Even as he asked himself that question he realized there easily could be. If Myra knew of the box, and if it worried her, she would try to gain possession of it.
All right, he told himself, it was a pretty flimsy case, filled with ifs, but the wise thing to do was to act as if it were a positive fact. In any event, he was going to Colorado, and this would be part of the business he would do there.
Sonnenberg…Henry Sonnenberg! Val had thought of putting all that out of his mind, of avoiding the man and letting him come to his own bad end in his own time, but now they were pointed in the same direction just as if some fate was pulling the strings.
He thought of Sonnenberg as he remembered him, heavy, powerful, a man who seemed a composite of rawhide and iron, a man who seemed indomitable. Even Billy the Kid had looked a bit wary when he mentioned him. Somewhere ahead he might meet Henry Sonnenberg, and when they met it would be the last meeting for one or both of them.
Val Darrant had never wanted a gun battle. He had learned to use a gun just as he had learned to handle cards, or ride a horse, or swim. That he happened to be good with a gun was due to some natural dexterity, some inborn skill, and of course to practice.
He listened to the long drawn-out whistle of the train, and got up with the others and went across to the railroad platform to pick up their tickets. The entire population—all six of them—was there to see them off.
Val escorted Boston to one of the red-plush seats. “Val,” she said, “I’m kind of scared. I’ve never ridden the steam cars before.”
“It isn’t that hard,” Val said. “You just hook your spurs in the bellyband, grab the horn with both hands, and hang on.”
He sat down in the seat beside her, while Dube sat across the aisle, facing them. Tensleep, who had held up more trains than most people had ridden on, pulled his hat down over his eyes and went to sleep.
The sun set over the prairie far ahead of them, the night came down, the stars appeared, the whistle echoed across the lonely buffalo lands. The coach rocked pleasantly, and they slept.
Chapter 22
*
PRINCE PAVEL WAS tall and straight, and the scars served to add a somewhat romantic and piratical aspect to his otherwise cold features. Born in St. Petersburg, he had visited the estate from which he drew his income on only three occasions, all of which he remembered with distaste.
His father had been involved in the reform movement of Tsar Alexander II, but father and son had little in common, and disagreed violently on the subject. Pavel had spent most of his life outside of Russia, and like many other Russians of this period who were of the nobility, he spoke French almost exclusively.
Prince Pavel’s inheritance was sufficient had he been content to devote part of his time to his estates, and had he not become an obsessive gambler. Unfortunately for him, he had utmost belief in his skill with cards, a faith that was unwarranted.
Moreover, the reform movements of Alexander II had left the nobility politically emasculated; and Pavel, although he served briefly in the cavalry, had no taste for the military life. By one means or another he contrived to maintain himself in the style he preferred, but this had grown increasingly difficult, and nothing remained but to obtain an income somehow, or return to his estates to live the life of a provincial, and to Prince Pavel this was a fate worse than death.
Myra Fossett had opened a way. Where it might lead he had no idea, but a still young woman, worth millions, was a chance not be missed. And for the other barrel of his gun, there was the possibility of a rich marriage for Louise.
Pavel’s belief in his own ability with women was equaled only by his contempt for them. Robert Fleury had warned him about Myra Fossett, but the warning merely amused him. If she had that much money, and needed him for some purpose, he intended to have some of that money. Americans, he had heard, were awed by titles, and he was prepared to awe them some more.
“Be careful, cousin,” Louise warned him. “This Myra Fossett may cost you more than you can afford to pay.”
For the meeting Prince Pavel wore his dress uniform, and the orders on his chest presented impressive array, especially to someone who did not know what they meant. Confident as he was, he was embarrassed by his position. He needed money, and in a very real way this might be his last chance.
The library was dimly lit, which irritated him. One cannot make a dramatic entrance into a darkened room.
He was announced, and he strode in. Myra Fossett looked at him, asked him to be seated, and returned to the papers on her desk.
He was coldly furious, and was tempted to rise and walk out, but he restrained himself. “Madame—” he began.
She looked up. “I am not called that. I am called Mrs. Fossett.”
“You have invited me here to discuss business, I believe. I am here.” He glanced at his watch. “I have other engagements.”
Myra sat back in her chair and studied him. “Prince Pavel,” she said “you are an attractive man. If you are also intelligent you can be of assistance to me. By being of assistance to me you can make yourself a lot of money, but first we have to understand each other.” Suddenly her voice changed. “So don’t give me any God-damned nonsense about other engagements!”
He could only stare at her. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that in his life; nobody had dared to. But before he could reply, or even rise to walk out, she was speaking again.
“I said you can be useful to me. When I talk about being useful, I mean, if you will do what I ask, useful to the tune of fifty or perhaps a hundred thousand dollars.”
He looked at her. Fifty thousand…one hundred thousand dollars! What was that in rubles? In francs?
&
nbsp; She moved a sheet of paper under the light on her desk. “Prince Pavel, I have here a list of your debts.”
“What!” He started to rise. “What kind of impertinence is this?”
“Sit down,” she said coldly, “and shut up, or I’ll have you thrown out of here, and I’ll file charges against you for attempted assault. And”—she smiled—“I will produce witnesses.”
He was appalled. He moved again to stand up, then sank back. She had to be joking! This could not be happening to him.
“You are an amazing woman,” he said. “Just what was it you had in mind?”
Even as he spoke, he was playing for time. He had to get out of here, he had to go somewhere and have a drink, he had to think this over.
She took up the sheet from her desk and handed it to him. It was, indeed, what she had said—a list of his debts. And they were all there, some even that he had forgotten about, and it came to a very ugly sum. In fact, there were the names of a dozen men there who would sue him immediately if they dreamed he owed as much as this list showed.
“It is rather complete,” he admitted, “but I still do not understand what you want of me.”
“We are short of princes this season,” Myra said, “and the last one was pot-bellied, and his beard smelled of tobacco…cheap tobacco. There are a lot of people in this town, people otherwise quite intelligent, who are impressed by titles. I brought you over here to impress them.”
Before he could speak, she shook her head. “I am not a social climber, Prince Pavel. Not, at least, in the sense you might think. I am interested in money. Many of the men who own industries or businesses with whom I have no contact are people I do not meet socially. I need to know those people, and I know which ones I want to know, and I know what to do about it when I know them. And that is where you come in.”
“Yes?”
“I shall give a party to introduce you. I shall see that there is much in the public press about you, and everyone will come, including the men I wish to meet. Their wives are to come also, and we will in turn be invited to their homes. You can open doors for me that I cannot open by myself.”
Novel 1970 - Reilly's Luck (v5.0) Page 20